


it's called sexy wrestling, baby

by thenewlondoner (muleumpyo)



Series: to live, to love, to have sexy times with nice mattress toppers [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie's Gucci loafers get a special mention, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Fix-It, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sex Games, Sexy Times, if you can't guess by the title there's sexy wrestling, there is no sixty-nineing im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-01 07:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21429121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muleumpyo/pseuds/thenewlondoner
Summary: The name of the game is strip wrestling and the concept is simple: every round, the victor gets to remove one piece of the loser's clothing.Richie isn't sure what's better in this scenario: winning or losing?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: to live, to love, to have sexy times with nice mattress toppers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546069
Comments: 15
Kudos: 238





	it's called sexy wrestling, baby

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of "we're f***ing killing it, babe" but you don't need to have read it before reading this! Just the basic facts if you don't want to go through the angst:
> 
> 1) Eddie lived  
2) Eddie divorced Myra and moved to LA with Richie  
3) Love is stored in nice mattress toppers

Eddie's gonna lose because he wears socks. 

Eddie always wears socks, because he wants to start off with as much coverage as possible. (He says it's perfectly reasonable. Richie just laughs and says it's kind of a tactical disadvantage, but he lets Eddie get away with it because it's Eddie.) This means Eddie almost always loses.

The rules—yes, there's rules because it's only fun if it seems fair—have been changed a little over time. 

Eddie said it had to be on a padded surface. Richie vetoed anything heavier than a sweatshirt. Then he vetoed vests (the notorious puffy down NorthFace vest incident of October 2018—well, they don't talk about that). 

Finally, a standardized uniform was agreed upon: 

  * pajama pants
  * t-shirt
  * underwear

[optional: sweatshirt, socks.] 

Sometimes Richie will wear the sweatshirt but never socks. Eddie will _ always _ wear socks, sometimes a sweatshirt, too. This means he starts with a higher limit, which is technically unfair but Richie doesn't mind, because honestly, Eddie needs the advantage. 

Plus, Richie likes taking off the layers. It's like unwrapping a present. A sweaty, sometimes annoyed present.

The rules of the contest are simple:

  * Two contestants, one bed (bed is technically optional, but at least a carpet or a blanket is required). 
  * Contenders start off holding each others hands
  * Safe word: bolognese [the one and only time this has been invoked was once when Eddie flipped Richie onto his stomach somehow, the wily bastard, and something fucked up in Richie's back. Eddie will not let go of the way Richie pronounced bolognese - _bol-OG-knees_ \- "It's not supposed to rhyme with cheese, Richie!" As if Richie didn't know. Richie spent the rest of that Saturday lying on the floor with Eddie, loopy from the muscle relaxant meds Eddie gave him, calling him Dr. K, enjoying the way Eddie took care of him, putting his head on a pillow and feeding him popcorn as they tried to watch a movie together on Eddie's tablet.]
  * Each round is over when the other is down for 5 seconds, or taps out
  * The 'winner' is the one with clothes on at the end of the contest, but in reality everyone wins because everyone gets naked eventually, which is the entire point 

  
  


Richie sits on one side of the bed, smirking at Eddie. Eddie is pulling on a sweatshirt over one of Richie's t-shirts that he's taken to sleeping in. 

Richie won't deny the sight of Eddie in one of his shirts sends a zap of pleasure straight down his spine in a way that's entirely new every single time. He never got possessive in his previous relationships, maybe because none of the other ones were as long as he's been with Eddie. Even though he was never really big on sharing, he has to admit Eddie looks _ just right _ in his clothes. Plus, it makes him look tiny which is still hilarious to Richie. 

"Ready to lose, babe?" Richie asks. He raises his hands as if he's a tiger and gives an exaggerated growl like he's in a seventies porn film. "Ready to catch these hands?"

Eddie zips up the sweatshirt with a finality that indicates he's going to take this one very seriously. He pins Richie with an unimpressed look and a raised eyebrow. "I don't think that means what you think it means." 

"Ooh, are you up to date on the slang? The verse? The, uh, lingo?" Richie extends his hands out towards Eddie, palms up, like he's begging for something. He wiggles his fingers. "You telling me you don't want these hands on you?"

Eddie's face flushes red. His nose twitches and Richie notices he avoids the question. "We are both forty-three years old, Rich. Neither of us know any slang." 

"Speak for yourself, boo. You're my bae. We'll be cupcake-ing on the beach in no time. Cake by the ocean, all that." Richie winks at Eddie. He's fairly sure Eddie doesn't know that song, and even though Richie knows it, he doesn't _ actually _ know what it means. 

"Sure." Eddie rolls his eyes good-naturedly and grabs Richie's hands, spinning them around and lifting them up into position. He laces their fingers together, palms pressed flat against each other. When he squeezes their hands and shoots Richie a little smirk, Richie can't ignore the way heat spreads over his body in a rush at just this little touch.

God, he's embarrassing himself.

"Ready?" Eddie asks. "Or do you need more time to go on Urban Dictionary?"

Richie shrugs, squeezing Eddie's hands back. "Ready when you are, fam." 

Eddie makes a _ hmm _ sound that indicates he's not duly impressed. "Okay. Five, four, three, two, on—" 

Richie tightens his grip as he pulls Eddie forward, and flops back onto the bed. Eddie lands chest-first on him with a weighty _ oomph _, and before he can get his bearings back, Richie rolls them over until he's straddling Eddie's hips, hands pressing Eddie's down into the mattress. 

"One?" Richie asks, a little breathless. 

Eddie strains against him, hips bucking up, and Richie rides the movement like a wave, knees tight on either side of Eddie's hips. It's a good effort, but the socks prove to be a tactical disadvantage, just like Richie thought, as they slip against the duvet cover. Eddie's hands flex, fingers tightening on Richie's, but he can't really move.

Eddie flops back onto the bed and shoots him a look. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, already. "We didn't technically start." 

Richie raises an eyebrow and leans back. "I swear I heard you say 'one'? No?"

Eddie untangles one hand and points at Richie. "Okay, I got the first syllable out but—" 

"So you did say it!" Richie crows. "One only has _ one _ syllable, babe." He grasps Eddie's hand and presses a quick kiss to the pad of the pointer finger. 

As he pulls back, Eddie flicks the end of his nose with the same finger. 

"Hey," Richie pouts. 

"Fine, I guess," Eddie says, but his face has flushed a little pink. “We’ll count that as one.”

Richie has discovered it's the little things that get to Eddie, too. The random, quick kisses on the cheek or another available body part when Richie thinks Eddie is being particularly cute, bringing another cup of coffee to Eddie's desk when the previous cup runs out, sending him pictures of random shit Richie runs across that he thinks Eddie might like when he's out at a show. 

From what Eddie has said, and what Richie has inferred, Myra was never much for… any of those things. In public, she would demand Eddie hold her hand or kiss her in front of their friends, and apparently she always made him say, 'I love you' before disconnecting a call. It never seemed easy or natural or real, but it strikes Richie as something the older Mrs. K would do. 

Privately, Richie thinks the reason Eddie got married to Myra is that she was the only person who Eddie thought wanted him around _ because _ of the forced intimacy, rather than despite it. Which frustrates him to no end because Eddie is amazing and annoying in the best ways and Richie feels like his heart is going to burst sometimes with how much he loves him.

“So, what comes off first?” Richie asks, tracing a finger down Eddie’s chest, along the zipper of his sweatshirt. 

According to the rules, Eddie can pick whatever piece of clothing he wants to lose first. But Eddie always goes in a particular order: sweatshirt, socks, pajama pants. After that, it really depends on how desperate they both are. They’ve definitely fucked with their shirts on, which is a tragedy, considering Eddie, incongruous to his constant polos and checked shirts and slightly reedy look when he wears either of the above, _ has a six pack. _

The first time Richie saw it, he couldn’t even believe it. “Why do you wear polos, Eds? I mean, why wear shirts at all? You’re _ ripped _ . You should go around shirtless _ all the time, _ what the fuck?” Eddie had turned bright red and said, “Fuck you,” to which Richie had responded, “Fuck me yourself, dude.” Eddie had given him a droll look and said, "Isn't that what we were doing, before _ you _ got distracted?" which was so good it made Richie roll around with laughter and eventually Eddie had to pin him down and they made out like teenagers for another twenty minutes. 

Eddie flops his arms out to his sides. "Sweatshirt, please." 

"Mm," Richie hums as he considers the possibilities. He could just unzip it and get right to the next round, but another thought strikes him and it's brilliant. He shuffles back on his knees, sliding down Eddie's body.

Eddie lifts his head, frowning down at him as Richie leans over his chest. "What are you doing?" 

"Hthip-ing-er-swethrt-wim-tees," Richie tries to say around the zipper he has between his teeth. He raises his eyebrows at Eddie. Isn't it obvious? 

"Why?"

"Sesy." Richie puts his hands on Eddie's shoulders and pushes him to lie back down. 

"Sure, uh-huh, sure." Eddie flops back down but Richie can tell Eddie is still watching him down the slopes of his cheeks. Which is why it's just the slightest bit embarrassing as he bites the zipper and attempts to drag it down the track. It moves an inch and then gets stuck. 

Richie shakes his head, trying to dislodge it from whatever is keeping it from moving. He yanks the zipper again, but it doesn't move. Apparently, sexy moves are a little harder than he thought. 

_ Harder. _ Ha. Richie wishes his mouth wasn't full of zipper or he'd make the joke.

He grunts in frustration and changes his angle, trying to pull the zipper up and then down, but now it seems fully stuck. "Wha-th'fuck?" he mutters. His tongue tastes like metal.

Eddie's chest shakes a little, and when Richie looks up, Eddie's lips are pressed tightly together and he's obviously holding in a laugh. 

"Hey!" Richie rears up and narrows his eyes at Eddie. Eddie is outright laughing now, hands lifting to cover his face. Under Richie's thighs, he's shaking a bit. 

Bracing his hands on either side of Eddie's face, Richie licks a stripe up the side of Eddie's exposed neck. Eddie jerks, laughter rising, and Richie nips at the edge of his jaw. 

"Hey!" Eddie pulls his hands from his face just enough to mock-glare at Richie. "What're you doing?" He cups Richie's face and pulls him up, eyes half-lidded as he says, "Hey, Rich. You're supposed to get me naked." 

“I’m _ trying _—” Richie starts, before Eddie pulls him in and kisses the words from his mouth. 

It’s still a revelation, every time that he kisses Eddie. The soft breath across his cheek, the way that Eddie makes a noise at the back of his throat, sometimes, like his breath has gotten caught there, the warmth of Eddie’s hands on his face and the soft, smooth slide of Eddie’s lips against his. 

Then Eddie pulls back with a disgusted sound. “Bro, your mouth tastes like metal.”

“Well, your zipper _ is _ metal,” Richie retorts, panting just a little bit from the kiss. “So touché.”

“What’s touché about that? Like, really?” Eddie reaches for the zipper himself and Richie hurries to grab it. 

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it…” he murmurs, as he grasps the (now wet, gross) zipper and slides it down Eddie’s chest. When Richie finally helps Eddie wrangle the sweatshirt off, he flings it across the room. Something definitely crashes in the distance. 

"Hope that wasn't your SAG Award," Eddie mutters. 

"Nah. You know that's in the cabinet next to the wine glasses. Now this, this is nice," Richie declares, dragging a finger along the line of sensitive skin exposed between Eddie's shirt and the black waistband of his Calvin Klein underwear. 

Eddie shivers, hips jerking a tiny bit involuntarily under Richie. But before Richie gets to do anything else, Eddie pushes him off and Richie lands on his ass on the bed. 

"Round two," Eddie says as he rises on his knees and puts up his hands. 

Richie blinks and puts up his hands for Eddie to interlace their fingers. Eddie is dwarfed by Richie's shirt, but muscles ripple under his forearms and the strength of his grip belies his small frame. 

Eddie locks eyes with Richie, dark gaze focused. "You're going down, baby."

A smirk catches at the corner of Richie's lips even as a thread of arousal tightens through him at the epithet. Eddie so rarely calls him baby, or babe, or any other pet name and even though it's almost a joke, it has the same effect it would if Eddie moaned it in his ear. "On you, I hope," Richie jokes, just a tiny bit breathless.

"Is that a promise? Or is your mouth writing checks it can't cash?" Eddie asks with an answering smirk. "Three, two, one!" 

Richie is distracted enough by the image of going down on Eddie that he's knocked off balance easily as Eddie lunges forward. Richie falls backwards onto the duvet, Eddie's hands slipping from his. Eddie clearly isn't expecting it to be that easy either, and he lands hard on Richie's chest again, knocking the breath from both of them. Before Richie can recover, Eddie catches his wrists and pins them to the bed on either side of Richie's head. 

The weight and heat of Eddie's body on his, pinning him down, wakes Richie up in more ways than one. It’s like an electric shock straight through his system. He wraps one leg around Eddie's and arches up, trying to roll over, but Eddie braces himself on the bed and pushes back. They strain against each other, Eddie using his full weight and the considerable strength in his arms to keep Richie's hands on the bed and his hips pinned down as Richie tries to writhe free. 

Finally, Richie gives up and flops down.

Eddie slumps against him, panting into Richie's neck. When he pulls up, he smirks. "Giving up already?" 

In response, Richie wraps his leg around Eddie's waist, not trying to push him away, but pulling him tight to Richie until their hips are pressed together, and his hardness is obvious. As is Eddie's. The effect of the closeness is immediate.

Eddie's hands tighten on Richie's wrists and his breathing hitches. “Hey,” Eddie growls, even as his hips thrust shallowly against Richie’s. Heat flares up his spine and pools in his belly. God, Richie is gonna _ die _. 

Richie groans. “Just giving you a preview, babe.” It’s a little embarrassing how high his voice goes when Eddie leans over and kisses him softly behind his ear. 

“Really?” Eddie whispers, thighs tightening around one of Richie’s. His eyes are dark and his lashes cut soft shadows across his cheeks. His voice is low and Richie can feel his chest rising and falling quickly against his own, the heat of him emanating through the thin layers separating them. "Of what?"

"Uhhhh…" Richie's mind has gone fully blank. His usual quick responses are so far from him right now, with Eddie pinning him down on the bed. He licks his lips and tries to think. 

Above him, Eddie's eyes focus on his mouth. Tragically, he doesn't make any move to kiss Richie. 

This is one of those moments Richie really wishes he had his hands free so he could pull Eddie in for a kiss. "Uh, for when—when we get naked. Which is hopefully soon. Chop chop, babe. I choose the sweatshirt." He wiggles his fingers at Eddie and the intense moment is broken. "Get strippin'."

Eddie shakes his head as he pulls back and sits back on his heels. "I'm not using my teeth." 

"Aw, man," Richie says as he sits up. Without the heat and the weight of Eddie on him, he's a little cold. "But it's such a sexy move." He waves his hand towards Eddie's now sweatshirt-free chest. 

Eddie raises a dubious eyebrow. "_ Sure _."

"Oh, you think you can do better?" Richie challenges him with a smirk, spreading his arms wide. "You want to out-sexy me? Richie Tozier, sex god extraordinaire—" 

Eddie rolls his eyes good-naturedly, a growing smile making the dimple in his left cheek flash. "Yes, I will 'out-sexy' you, 'sex god extraordinaire'" he says, air quotes and all. "Watch me." 

Richie starts to say something about how air quotes aren't really a good lead-in to sexy times, when Eddie takes advantage of Richie's open arms to climb into his lap. One second he's across the bed and the next Eddie's straddling him, knees digging into Richie's hips.

The heat and the weight of him there, in his lap, right on top of Richie's arousal, silences Richie in a second. Eddie's arms slip around his neck, and he's so close to Richie, his mouth only inches away that Richie thinks they're about to skip the whole thing and just get straight to the sexy times. 

Eddie's brown eyes catch the soft morning light, and he looks intently at Richie. Leaning forward just enough, his eyes half-close, eyelashes softly shadowing his cheeks, and brushes his lips across Richie's. It's so close and yet so far, the barely-there touch on the sensitive skin of Richie's lips.

Then Eddie's hands are sliding down Richie's chest to push the sweatshirt off his shoulders. Richie, strangely pliable, allows Eddie to guide him. When it's off, he drops it off the side of the bed and rolls himself off Richie. 

He leans back and sits cross-legged on the bed, looking smugly at Richie. "Sexy enough for you, Tozier?" 

Richie feels like he's just been run over by a train that is Eddie Kaspbrak. "Where… where have you been hiding moves like that?!" Richie asks, when he can finally make himself speak again. 

Eddie's smirk ticks up. He looks inordinately pleased with himself and Richie can't blame him. 

When they first got together, the first few times they had sex it was— well, it was hot and _ really _ fucking good, but Eddie seemed awkward. Richie had felt awkward, too, like he was going to go and fuck everything up with the desire he'd been holding back for twenty years. Worse were the thoughts that he'd wake up and it would be a terribly fucked up dream and that Eddie hadn't really lived through the final fight, they hadn't gotten him to the hospital in time, and Richie would have to wake to an empty bed and a truly broken heart. 

When they talked about it (the sexy parts, not really the dreams which he's still working through with his therapist), Richie had explained he'd had time to come to grips with his sexuality, but Eddie had confessed he hadn't allowed himself to think about it. Richie had said he didn't need to rush, he didn't need to do anything, and Eddie had given him a droll look and said, 'I know. I'm not doing anything I don't want to, Rich.'

And now that Eddie looks flushed and smug and so, so proud of himself, comfortable in his skin and their bed, Richie can't help but love it. Doesn't mean he can express it in a serious way, though. 

Richie clasps his hands to his heart and says in a fake Southern accent, "Dah-ling, you've done me in with your skill. I'm so proud of you, I can't even stand it. Ah, I'm going to swoon!" he catches Eddie's amused smirk before he closes his eyes and falls back on the bed, hands still pressed to his chest. 

The mattress moves as Eddie crawls over to him, and when he opens his eyes, Eddie's leaning over him, hands braced on either side of Richie's head. Eddie looks down at him, dark eyes amused. 

"You're such an idiot," Eddie says with a smile. Before Richie can protest, Eddie leans down and kisses him, softly at first, until Richie wraps his arms around Eddie's neck and pulls him down. The kiss changes, deepens, Eddie nipping softly at Richie's bottom lip and licking into his mouth in a way that makes a groan catch at the back of Richie's throat. 

Now Richie really thinks they're going to stop the game and just get straight (ha!) to the sexy times, but Eddie pulls back with a sigh and looks down at him with hooded eyes. Eddie looks so good like this, relaxed and content, one hand cupping the back of Richie's neck and the other braced on his chest. Richie wishes they could just stay like this all the time, sprawled together on the bed, joking with each other and maybe making out a bit. 

Eddie's looking at him intently, almost like he's preparing to say something. But then he just pats Richie on the chest. "Up and at 'em, Rich. Next round." 

Richie groans as he sits up. "Alright, alright, alright."

This is when it gets hard in their game, no pun intended. He has to arrange himself a little before he can get back into a suitable position. 

Eddie laces their fingers together. "Ready?"

"Sí, señor. Uno, dos, trés!" Richie says. They push their hands against each other, both trying to throw the other off balance, but they know each other's moves very well by now. 

Eddie narrows his eyes across the gap. "That the best you can do, Tozier?"

"No," Richie grunts. "_ You're _ the best I can _ do. _ And you're top shelf, honey." 

Eddie rolls his eyes.

Finally Eddie is pushing forward and his feet slip across the covers as he tries to gain traction. Richie uses the moment he's off balance to suddenly slacken his returning pressure. Eddie overshoots and Richie pushes him just slightly to the side and Eddie lands on his stomach on the bed. 

Before he can get up, Richie flops diagonally on top of him, like they're in a dogpile. He's not even trying to hold Eddie down, he just takes a deep breath and relaxes his full weight. His head lands onto Eddie's shoulder and his arms are flopped out to either side. 

"Ah, what a nice pillow," Richie says. "Bony, just like I like it."

Under him, Eddie grunts as he tries to push up onto his elbows. Richie has no doubt he can do it— his biceps are quite nice— but he is still five foot nine and lean, and Richie is six foot one and not lean. 

Eddie's shoulders move under him. "That cannot be comfortable," he groans and manages to get up onto his elbows. "God, why is this bed so soft?" 

"You were the one that got the mattress topper, babe," Richie reminds him, snuggling down on top of Eddie. He buries his face into Eddie's neck and presses what can only be described as a 'smooch' to the soft skin. It's loud and smacking and when he pulls back and blows a cool stream of air over it, Eddie shivers with laughter underneath him. 

"That was so we could do this without breaking something," Eddie says as he collapses a moment later. His back rises shallowly as he breathes. "You got the second one."

"Mm, touché," Richie murmurs. "That was for fun. What's next?" 

He traces the edge of Eddie's ear with a light finger and Eddie watches him out of the corner of his eye, considering. 

"Socks," Eddie decides, just like Richie thought. 

Richie pops up onto his knees. Eddie rolls onto his back and raises a foot toward Richie's face. 

Richie quickly slides one sock off and flings it in the same direction as Eddie's sweatshirt (no crash this time). 

"That sock is never going to be seen again," Eddie says with a sigh. "We're going to have to go to Costco for more." 

Richie shrugs. He never thought he'd be happy at the idea of doing shit like going to Costco together with someone, but with Eddie, even little chores like that seem fun. He puts on the voice of what he imagines is a grizzled war veteran. "Casualty of war, kid."

"Do they count socks lost in the casualty lists?" Eddie asks with a raised eyebrow. 

"They should. Think of all the socks, missing their pair," Richie puts a hand on his chest and stares into the distance with a misty look for a second. "Tragic. So young. Three years old, my Nike sock, and already lost to the evil space between the back of the couch and the wall." 

"So _ that's _where they keep going." Eddie narrows his eyes. "I thought the washing machine ate them?"

"This is a multi-front war! We're losing socks on all sides. Attrition rate at 32% per year and growing! It's a goddamn tragedy, man!" 

A smile quirks at the corner of Eddie's lips. "Why do I like the fact that you know what attrition rates are?" 

Richie wiggles his eyebrows. "You're a nerd, baby. Just like me." 

Eddie scoffs. 

As Richie grasps Eddie's other ankle and slides the second sock off, he gets an idea. He throws the second sock over his shoulder for good measure, but doesn't let go of Eddie's ankle. 

Eddie watches him suspiciously, although he doesn't try to pull his leg away. 

Which is his mistake, because Richie uses this opportunity to drag light fingers across the bottom of Eddie's foot, tickling him. Eddie's leg jerks away, but Richie just cackles and hangs on, tickling Eddie again. 

Automatically, Eddie kicks his leg out, nearly catching Richie on the face with his foot. 

"You—!" Eddie half-laughs, half-yells as he writhes across the bed, trying to get away. 

Richie is intent on one more tickling opportunity before he lets Eddie go, but as soon as he taps his fingers lightly down the arch of Eddie's foot, Eddie kicks out again, this time catching Richie on the chest. 

Richie falls back with an _ oomph _ and lets go, just as Eddie, thrown off balance by his own kick, slides backward off the edge of the bed. 

Richie's eyes go wide and he dives after Eddie, trying to grab his leg, his waist, his hand—anything. He manages to land on Eddie's hips, one arm crushed behind Eddie's lower back, the other finally grasped by one of Eddie's outstretched hands. 

It's not a big deal anyway because Eddie has caught himself, one hand braced on the carpeted floor. This leaves him hanging awkwardly off the edge of the bed. 

Eddie's chest rises and falls with the traces of laughter. "Thanks. Though this is arguably worse than just landing on the carpet."

Richie's heart is racing, just a bit. He doesn't know why the image of Eddie slipping backward, falling away from him as he reaches out, makes him panic, just a little. "You're welcome, Your Highness," he retorts. "Now, up. I think your ass is crushing my arm." 

Eddie's eyes glitter with amusement. "My ass is that hard, huh?" 

Richie barks out a laugh. "What was that, babe? Was that your first ass joke? I'm so proud."

"We've been together three years, that's hardly my first ass joke." 

"I'm so glad I've been such a good influence on you," Richie says blithely as he grasps Eddie's arm and pulls him up. 

"You've definitely been _ some _ sort of influence," Eddie agrees. "Because of you, I feel like I've read about half of Urban Dictionary."

"Only half? We've got to up your lessons."

“Oh, really? You think so?” As Eddie comes close, his smile softens and Richie thinks he's going to say something… sweet? Instead, Eddie leans in and whispers, "You know 'cake by the ocean' means 'sex on the beach', right?" 

“No!” Richie chokes. It’s not even particularly dirty, but anytime Eddie says anything vaguely ‘inappropriate’, he’s reminded how much he loves him. "Wait, really? That’s what it means?”

Eddie laughs, bright and happy, clapping his hands together. “Shit, Rich, your face! You really didn’t know?” 

Richie narrows his eyes at Eddie. “How do _ you _ know that?"

Instead of answering, Eddie falls sideways onto the bed, still laughing. 

“No, no, no, no. No. Really?” Richie mutters to himself. He really should leave it, but now he wants to know for certain. He turns to look at the bedside table on his side of the bed, where his phone is still laying face-down next to the charger, where he forgot to charge it last night. Hopefully it still has battery left. “Shit. Lemme see.”

Just as he leans over and grabs the phone, Eddie pushes himself up. “Hey! No phones.”

Richie makes a strangled sound as he unlocks the phone and tries to bring up the browser quickly. Just as he’s typing in _ urbandictio— _ Eddie half-lands on him, hands grasping at the phone. 

Richie laughs, trying to hold the phone out of Eddie’s grasp. But Richie is crouched over awkwardly and Eddie lands heavily on his shoulder, squishing him against the pillows and the padded headboard. 

“No phones,” Eddie reminds him, laughter in his voice. “You made that rule.”

“Urban Dictionary!” Richie squeaks out. “The people have to know the truth!” he says, even as he lets the phone drop onto the carpeted floor, where it’ll probably get kicked under the bed by accident and die from low battery and it’ll be a whole thing trying to find it later. 

He doesn’t care, though, because Eddie is pressed up against him and laughing in his ear. Richie uses this prime opportunity to wriggle himself around and flip their positions. Eddie lands on his back, his head cushioned by the many pillows they have on the bed. 

Eddie tries to push him off, but he’s laughing too hard to do any serious payback. 

With hands around Eddie's forearms, Richie pins him down. He is half-sprawled over him, their legs tangled together, as he asks, "How do you know that song?"

Eddie looks unimpressed. "Bro, everyone knows that song." 

"I thought you were living under a rock in 2015. Where did you hear it? Do risk analysts listen to the radio while they drive or is that too distracting?" Richie asks with a smirk. 

Being in the car while Eddie drives is a truly terrifying experience. Richie has lived in LA for twenty years so he's used to the assholes that live here, but Eddie learned to drive in NYC. This means he basically never learned how to drive like a normal person, especially on freeways. Or in congested metropolitan areas. Or city streets. Every time Richie gets into the car with Eddie in the driver's seat, he knows he is submitting himself to another heart-racing, possibly nausea-inducing, ride. 

"Speaking as a former risk analyst, I can tell you no risk analyst would live _ under _ a _ rock," _ Eddie says dryly. "Besides, I have plenty of more distracting things in the car compared to the radio. Like you."

"Ooh, I'm just so handsome you can't help but be distracted by my be-a-utiful face?" Richie jokes, putting one hand under his chin and batting his eyelashes like he's a debutante. 

He's joking, so he's surprised when—rather than scoffing or denying it—Eddie looks directly at him and says, seriously, "Yeah." He ruins it a second later by continuing, "Especially by the face you make when you look like you're going to cry at how 'bad' my driving is." 

"Oh, it's bad," Richie assures him. "And I've been in LA for forever, so I know bad driving when I see it. You've got it bad, baby." 

"It's not my fault no one here knows what traffic laws are, or what the right of way is! West Coast people," Eddie mutters.

"West Coast, best coast!" Richie crows. "But you're a West Coast-er now, too. Unless you're planning on getting on a plane back to New York tomorrow."

The words hit a little too close to home, and Richie trails off. 

In the beginning, after the Losers all defeated It and Eddie recovered in Bangor County General Hospital, Eddie moved out to LA with Richie. Richie was so worried about Eddie changing his mind, that he’d suddenly realize he wasn’t gay or that he didn’t like Richie, that he didn’t actually want to be here or he was just going along with it or something. 

The feeling—that this is all going to disappear in a moment—has faded with time, even if it occasionally still rears its ugly head. They’ve been together for three years and Richie feels like he loves Eddie more each day. It’s cheesy as fuck, but it's real. 

"Nah," Eddie says softly. He’s watching Richie closely, those dark eyes tracing over Richie's face. "I like it here."

"The In-N-Out got you, huh?" Richie jokes, his throat hurting a little from the emotion, because he can hardly handle the way Eddie is looking at him right now. As if he understands Richie.

That is the thing about Eddie— sometimes he seems oblivious to people, or their feelings, in a way that seems built into him from a young age. It isn't that he is trying to be rude, or doing it on purpose, but sometimes he seems not to understand the way other people feel, like he had never been taught.

And then there are other times, more often, where Eddie seems to know exactly what people are thinking. Like he is hyperaware of everything going on around him, of the way everyone interacts or thinks, and he anticipates what they want and what they don't— sometimes too much— and holds himself back. He's less like that with Richie. Hardly at all, really. The perception remains the same but the holding back, the way he used to close up or clamp down on anything he might say or do or be feeling because it might impact someone else— that has gone away. He's freer.

And the thing is, Richie lets Eddie see him. It's not always great, being seen, because Richie has spent the last forty years hiding himself from everyone but the Losers, and even then it was really only from when he was eight to when he was seventeen, when all but Mike left Derry. The last twenty years he's hidden alone in a city of almost four million people. He's still not used to it.

Even when he's onstage in front of a crowd of people, Richie never feels more perceived than he does like this, with Eddie.

"Yeah, the In-N-Out got me good." Eddie's reply is dry, but his expression doesn't change. It sounds like he's saying something else, something more heartfelt.

Eddie is so close, Richie would barely have to turn his head to kiss him. As if he can hear Richie's thoughts, Eddie tilts his chin up for a kiss, gaze on Richie's lips.

"Alright, Tozier, you ready to try to undress me without either of us sliding off the bed?" he murmurs, eyebrow raised.

Instead of answering right away, Richie takes the invitation that Eddie is offering to lean down and kiss him. Richie kisses him, softly at first, but it's Eddie who deepens the kiss, who parts his lips and strokes his tongue against Richie's in a way that sends a wash of heat all over Richie's body.

Jesus fuck, he's never going to get tired of kissing Eddie. He's been with other people, other people that he maybe-sort-of-loved, but they fall away in comparison to anything with Eddie. It's never been like this with anyone else, not this quiet sort of intensity that fills Richie up with heat and energy and _ want. _

Richie shifts his weight to one side so he can have one hand free to cup Eddie's cheek, slide his fingers into the dark hair that curls at Eddie's nape. Eddie has let it grow longer recently, until it's long enough to have a slight wave to it. It softens the sharp planes of Eddie's face that Richie has grown to know and love so well, these past three years, and all those years in between.

Sometimes he forgets that they forgot, the past blending seamlessly with the present until those lonely years in between, where for so long something always rang hollow about his life, are subsumed by the present, where he knows so much more, where he remembers everything. Still, sometimes he wakes in a cold sweat, afraid that they've forgotten, that it's all some great, terrible dream and Eddie really died down there under Neibolt, or he didn't and they left him to be buried alive. 

_ We carried him out, we carried him out, we did, we helped him... _

Those nights, Eddie will press a warm hand to his forehead and wipe away the tears that sometimes spill over his cheeks, wrapping his arms around Richie's shoulders until Richie can bury his face against Eddie's chest, still rising and falling with every one of his breaths, the heartbeat underneath still strong, the scar from surgery barely visible in the low light of the bedside lamp. 

Richie will hold Eddie tight, until the weight and warmth of Eddie's body against him comforts him enough to allow him to fall asleep.

Because Eddie is alive, and here.

Eddie groans as Richie slides his thigh between his, making a spike of arousal dart straight up Richie's spine like a lightning bolt. Eddie's legs tighten around his, as the hand Eddie has holding onto Richie's shirt tightens into a fist, Eddie arching up beneath him.

Richie pulls back with a wet pop, feeling slightly dazed. "What, uh, hmm—" he starts, immediately distracted by the pink, tempting curve of Eddie's lips so close to his. He had a question, he knows he did, his brain just isn't allowing him to think of it right now. His hand slides up until it's cupping Eddie's cheek again and his thumb brushes across the rise of Eddie's cheekbone.

Eddie's eyes open and he blinks slowly. "What?" he asks, although as he kisses him before Richie can reply.

Desire pools deep in his belly at Eddie's kiss, the hot slide of his mouth on Richie's, the way he opens up and Richie can lick into his mouth, wanting more. He's overwhelmed at Eddie's breath on his cheek and how Eddie's hand has slipped under the hem of Richie's t-shirt and his fingers are tracing against the sensitive skin underneath.

The thought wakes him up and Richie pulls back. "Your shirt." He shakes his head, scrunching up his eyes so he can't look at Eddie all hot and bothered underneath him and looking absolutely kissable. He can't get distracted. "Shit, I mean, what, uh, do you choose this time? What clothing?"

Eddie allows himself to relax back into the pillows, eyes closing. He releases a short breath through his nose, almost like he's frustrated.

Richie certainly is, if his dick is any indication. He barely resists the urge to reach down and arrange himself, but he's also fairly sure if he puts his hand anywhere near that area in the next minute, he's going to come into his own pajama pants, before Eddie has even gotten them anywhere close to off. (Off. Ha ha! Fuck, he's gonna die.)

"My shirt," Eddie finally decides.

Richie leans back with a groan. Fuck, how is he going to do this? 

Eddie sits up a little bit, and with some intense wrangling, Richie is able to pull the shirt off and drop it off the side of the bed. This reveals a whole lot of Eddie's skin, usually pale because of his polo shirts or intensive SPF he likes to put on at the beach—ooh, Richie should not be thinking about beaches right now, not with the memory of Eddie saying 'sex on the beach' so fresh in his mind. But right now Eddie's chest is flushed pink with exertion, and Richie can't help himself from leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the junction where the column of Eddie's neck meets his shoulder, before pressing a few fleeting, hot kisses down the front of Eddie's chest.

Eddie's breathing hikes up, just a little, at the touches. "Alright, asshole," he says, grabbing Richie's hands, "let's finish this."

Richie blinks. For a moment he really thinks Eddie means _ finish _ this, finish this, meaning they scrap the game and go straight to the sexy fun times, but that's clearly not what Eddie has in mind. 

Instead, Eddie rises up, nearly knocking Richie in the face with his head. With a really rather gentle shove, he tumbles Richie backwards across the sheets, until Richie's head is nearly hanging off the end of the bed.

Breath knocked out of him, Richie takes a big gulp of air as Eddie lands on top of him, settling in between Richie's sprawled-open thighs. "Jesus, fuck, Eddie," he half-moans, half-cries, _ aware _ as he can feel Eddie's very obvious arousal through the thin layers of their pajama pants.

Eddie leans down and kisses him in a hot, filthy way that should be _ illegal _ because it's definitely going to kill Richie someday. What's Richie gonna say, though? 'My boyfriend kissed me in a super hot way and that's what murdered me, officer, please tell him he's not allowed to use his tongue like that unless he wants to take responsibility for killing me'? He doesn't even really know how Eddie learned to kiss like that, because Eddie had never been with anyone before they got together. Eddie says it was some porn that he watched, Richie thinks he's just naturally talented. 

Eddie pulls back, licking his lips. "Give in?" he asks.

Richie's head is still spinning from the abrupt change in spatial positioning and Eddie's hips pressing down on his in a way that just barely puts pressure on his dick in a way that's about to drive him mad with arousal, but doesn't do anything to alleviate it. "What?"

Eddie smirks, clearly pleased with himself, although his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, and his lips look like they just came from kissing (which they did), so it's not like Richie is alone here. He's pretty sure Eddie is just as turned on as he is, except Eddie is about twelve times more competitive than he is sometimes. Like now.

"Do you give in, babe?" Eddie asks in a low tone.

Richie closes his eyes at the pet name, and the wash of electric _ want _ that it spreads all over his skin that follows it. Honestly, he can barely think. He is trying to writhe against Eddie to alleviate some pressure that he feels like is building up in his chest, but Eddie isn't moving.

"What?" Richie asks, breathless, when Eddie doesn't move and doesn't look away.

"Do you—" Eddie leans in and brushes his lips across Richie's cheek, just barely at the corner of his mouth, "—give in on this round, Richie?"

Richie's fingers tighten in Eddie's grasp, almost too tightly. "Fuck y-you. Really? Yes! Yes, I give in, take off whatever you want. All of it, even."

Eddie presses a quick kiss to Richie's lips that Richie chases when he pulls away. "You have to choose," Eddie reminds him. "It's the rules."

"Oh, my God, the rules. The rules. Okay, I get it, Uh," Richie shakes his head. It doesn't matter, really. "Pants, just take the pants."

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles politely at him as if they weren’t just making out a second ago. He slides down Richie's body, fingers hooking into the waistband of Richie's flannel pajama pants. As he pulls it down and off, his knuckles drag down the sensitive vee at the cut of Richie’s hips in a way that is _ so close _ to where Richie wants him to touch, it's going to drive Richie insane. 

His hips rise involuntarily at the touch, seeking out more contact, more friction, _ something _, but he gets nothing. 

Eddie drops the pants on the floor and shoots Richie a grin. “Next round?” he asks.

But it's all part of the rules, all part of the game. Part of why they started playing this game, besides the obvious fun they get out of roasting each other and fucking driving each other nuts, is because of just that. It's a game and Eddie is competitive as shit, to the point that he forgets about feeling self-conscious when he's trying to win. In the beginning, the game had just enough structure that he forgot to be concerned that he was gay or a virgin or a million other personal anxieties that crop up when one gets naked with someone else. 

Richie means—well, he tells himself it's for Eddie but it's really for him, too. He forgets about feeling self-conscious about his body, about his own very limited experience, really, about the fear that occasionally still constricts his chest. He lets himself melt into it, makes him focus on just them, laughing in bed, trading insults and pet names and forgetting all about the outside world.

“Okay,” Richie says, easily enough, reaching out for Eddie’s hands. 

Eddie regards him suspiciously, but puts his hands out just the same. “What’re you—”

He’s still kneeling between Richie’s legs, so once Richie grabs his hands, it's easy enough for him to yank Eddie forward. Eddie lands awkwardly on his chest, elbows digging into Richie’s pecs. 

“Ow.” Richie squeezes his thighs around Eddie’s waist and declares, “Okay, anyway, I give in. Shirt, please.”

“I am not—” Eddie huffs and tries to pull up, but Richie has his ankles locked behind his ass. He feels very, _ very _ good right where he is, his obviously hard cock right next to Richie’s, separated by one less layer of clothing now. Still too many, though. 

"Five, four, three, two, one," Richie counts down quickly. "You win."

“I didn’t win that fairly,” Eddie protests. “You just wanted to get naked.”

“And you’re complaining?” Richie wiggles his eyebrows, before giving Eddie an exaggerated wink. “All’s fair in love and war, and I am ready to do what’s necessary to get to sexy times goin’, ASAP.”

"You're fucking impossible," Eddie says as rolls his eyes, but the words are fond and he doesn’t protest any further. He sits back on his heels and helps Richie peel off his shirt. 

The loss of the heat of him is almost enough to make Richie want to cry, but if it gets them both naked faster, he’s willing to sacrifice it. Plus the image of Eddie, cheeks and chest flushed, hair tousled, brown eyes bright, his arousal tenting the front of his own pajama pants, is a hot one. 

They're left now with Eddie in his pajama bottoms and briefs— just the barest strip of the waistband of his underwear peeks over the edge of his plaid pajama bottoms— and Richie only in his boxers. They're so close to the end now, Richie can almost taste it. Kind of like he wants to lean forward and lick at Eddie's exposed collarbone, or maybe trace with his tongue the slight trail of dark hair that leads into Eddie's pants.

Those thoughts are _ not _ helping the situation in his own pants right now.

Richie pushes himself up into a seated position, tucking his legs under him, and reaches out for Eddie. "One more round?" Richie asks. He's ready to forfeit this one, too, if need be— and experience has taught him, Eddie will not go down without a true fight, so it _ will _ be necessary to actively try to lose.

Eddie grabs his hands, and says with a jut of his chin, "You count off."

"Okay? Three, two, on—"

Eddie uses the _ exact _ same trick Richie used at the beginning of the game, yanking Richie forward before he's quite finished the word 'one'. Richie lands on top of Eddie, and they both hit the mattress with an _ oomph _. Instead of trying to flip them, though, Eddie spreads his legs and hooks his feet together behind Richie's hips, pulling him down into a flipped version of their position just a minute ago.

They're pressed together from hip to chest, and Richie has got to say, he likes being naked with Eddie. Even if it's just that they're both shirtless, the feel of the heat and smoothness of his skin against Richie's drives him a little bit crazy. He wants to run his hands all over Eddie's body, but Eddie is, despite his best efforts, _ still clothed. _

Before Richie has the chance to try to roll them over, so he can declare his loss and just get naked, Eddie squeezes his thighs around Richie's waist. Eddie smirks at him. "I lose."

Richie can't help it. He laughs, joy rising through him. "Cocky little shit," he murmurs, before giving Eddie a kiss. "Using my own tricks against me."

Eddie untangles their hands so he can cup Richie's face. "'All's fair in love and war'," he intones, in what Richie imagines is supposed to be an impression of _ his _ voice. It's not exact, but the tone of it, the cadence of it, is perfect, and Richie has to kiss him for it.

"So you want to lose?" Richie asks, between kisses. "Is that what you're saying?"

Eddie kisses him back, slowing them down until they're both panting against each other's lips, Richie's hips rocking shallowly against Eddie's. "What I'm saying is," Eddie says between breaths, also looking like he's kind of lost his train of thought, too, "—is I love you."

The closeness of the words, the softness of them, Eddie's warm hands on the back of his neck and pressed to the lower curve of his spine, overwhelm Richie. Sometimes it seems so easy to forget that they didn't have all the time together that they should, and they're only just barely making up for it now. He has to close his eyes and press his forehead to Eddie's as he takes a few deep breaths, because it's true, what's happening. This is real and Eddie's here, with him, and they kiss and they watch terrible movies together and they make each other weird birthday cards that no one else understands, and they fight sometimes, too, but they love each other.

It had taken them a long time after they moved in together for Eddie to say the words to Richie, and he doesn't say them a lot. So Richie takes each instance as a precious moment in and of itself, even if he can't quite express it. "Well, well, well," he says, opening his eyes, "what a coincidence."

Eddie narrows his gaze, dark eyebrows furrowing. "Why?"

"Be-cauuuuse," Richie drags out the word, as he brushes his nose against Eddie's, back and forth. He's trying to pretend to be casual, but he's really not good at it, not right now. "I love you, too."

Eddie shakes his head, a smile making the dimple in his cheek flash. "Okay, Rich, get these pants off me."

"Gladly."

Richie leans back onto his heels, Eddie's thighs resting on his. There's just enough room to slide his hands beneath Eddie's lower back and down, under the flannel pajama bottoms, over the curve of Eddie's ass. Eddie always wears briefs, from fancy brands like Calvin Klein or DKNY or Armani, with their logos displayed prominently on the waistband.

The first time Eddie got undressed in front of Richie, Richie couldn't stop himself from saying— "Well, you're definitely gay, man." When Eddie gave him a weird look, Richie explained, "Designer briefs? That's like, level five gay signaling, dude. And you went to the _ gym?" _

Eddie's hands had tightened around the trousers he was holding. "It was the Manhattan Sports Club, not your local YMCA, and it was a very exclusive invitation. There was a five year waiting list—"

"I bet every other dude there wanted to tap that," Richie interrupted, pointing at Eddie's ass.

"I'm not 'hot', Rich," Eddie shot back. "So I doubt it."

Richie had looked up at Eddie, standing next to the dresser in Richie's bedroom, with his dark eyes and his surprisingly muscled forearms, the cute swell of his ass in his black briefs, and his nice legs (Richie didn't wear shorts anymore because his legs were too weirdly skinny, but Eddie had nice legs) and couldn't imagine anyone attracted to dudes who wouldn't like to see Eddie naked. Hello? He couldn't even believe Eddie liked him.

Eddie was still looking at him, though, so Richie notched up the grease factor, giving him a _ very _ obvious up-and-down look. "Hmm, yeah right. I can guarantee they did. Didn't anyone in the changing room give you their number? Or ask if you wanted to train together... alone?" Richie raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Eddie's face had turned the color of a tomato, and it was a long minute before he responded, very tightly, "Maybe once or twice."

Richie squeezes Eddie's ass, enjoying the semi-irritated look Eddie gives him.

"Don't get distracted, Rich."

"But you're _ so _ distracting, dah-ling," Richie replies, even as he manages to wrangle the pants off Eddie's hips and partway up his thighs.

He runs into an issue trying to get them any further than that without dislodging Eddie from his very convenient place in Richie's lap. Not to be daunted, he tries to pull them off anyway, but they get stuck, and then Eddie is bending his knees to grab them himself, and they're almost working at cross-purposes for a moment, and Richie almost gets kicked in the face, _ again _. Finally, Richie is able to untangle one of the legs from where it has gotten caught on Eddie's ankle, and Eddie manages to grab the other side. With a drama that Richie appreciates, Eddie flings the pants over his head and onto one of the handles of the dresser behind.

"At last!" Richie cries. Eddie's thighs are still spread heavily across his own, and he takes this golden opportunity to run his hands up the expanse of skin now bared to him. A shiver almost seems to run through Eddie at the touch, as Richie's hands get closer and closer to where Richie can see the outline of his hard cock through his underwear.

Richie is very, very tempted to touch, especially as he can see Eddie's breathing hitch up as his hands get closer, but now he's determined to do this to the very end. So instead of touching, he lets his hands stop right at the top of Eddie's thighs, fingers just barely skimming under the lower edge of his underwear. His thumbs brush across the sensitive skin of Eddie's inner thighs. Eddie's skin is hotter here, and Richie wishes that instead of his hands, it was his mouth making its way up Eddie's legs, but he is _ committed. _

If anyone is going to call off the game, it's going to be Eddie. Guess Eddie's not the only one who's competitive.

Instead, Richie bends over and kisses down Eddie's chest and stomach, the muscles tightening as Richie passes his lips over them. His hands massage Eddie's thighs, loving the way Eddie can't seem to stop himself from tightening them around Richie's waist, or his soft exhalation as Richie tongues his way down the trail of hair leading to the waistband of Eddie's underwear. His face feels so hot, like he's embarrassed, but the fact that even the slightest brush of Eddie's thigh against the top of his own, dragging Richie's boxers across his own hard dick, is proof enough that he's just _ really _ turned on.

The scent of Eddie's skin is stronger here, and it makes Richie really want to get his mouth on Eddie, or for them to _ get to it _. He scrapes his teeth lightly along the rise of Eddie's hipbone, which elicits a nice sound from Eddie above, then tries to catch the elastic waistband of his underwear between his teeth.

"Hey, hey—" Eddie's hands rise from where they've been fisting the bedsheets to cup Richie's face and pull Richie away from his waistband. "Those are expensive."

"Don't you want me to rip them off with my teeth, like a hero from a romance novel?" Richie asks, even as he allows Eddie to pull him forward until they're pressed together again, this time with even more bare skin. _ Very _ nice. He wiggles a little bit which is perhaps a mistake, because he has to close his eyes flood of arousal that rushes through him at even that tiny bit of friction.

"I think I've already seen what your teeth can do when it comes to ripping off clothes," Eddie responds dryly. "But these briefs were $50, so no."

"$50?!" Richie asks, although he has gone shopping for Eddie's clothes before, so he knows how much Eddie likes to spend on stuff like that. Eddie opens his mouth to respond, so Richie continues, "But I guess they make your ass look nice, so no complaints."

"There really shouldn't be any complaints from the man who buys his underwear from the discount section of Target."

"Ah, ah, ah! _ Used to _ buy my underwear from the discount section of Target. Now I get them from the discount section of Nordstrom." Richie gives a little kiss to the end of Eddie's nose. "Your influence. Plus, I need something to do while you're trying on Gucci loafers, or whatever."

"At least they last you for over a year, rather than having to go back every three months. Now, are we going on to the next round?" Eddie asks. Even as Richie goes to respond, Eddie braces one foot on the bed, twists his hips, and rolls them over.

Richie pretends to push back on him for a second, but gives up quickly. "Oh, no! I lost," he says, affecting sadness. He puts one hand on his face and frowns. "So sad." He lets his hand drop, grinning up at Eddie. "Now let's get naked."

"So you're saying I won?" Eddie asks.

"Yes, you won."

"Even though I wore socks?"

Richie sighs. "Even though you wore socks."

"So you're saying I can win, even when I wear socks? Even though you called them my mortal weakness?"

"You can win with socks, even though they are your mortal weakness," Richie intones, before he slips his hands into Eddie's hair and pulls him in for a kiss. "Now come get your prize, winner."

Eddie snorts in laughter against Richie's lips. His brown eyes are amused as he pulls slightly back. "So you're my prize?"

"All six-foot, one-inch, baby. Plus some more inches down below, if you know what I mean." Richie winks and Eddie laughs again.

"That's so gross," Eddie says, but when he leans down to kiss Richie, it's hotter than before, less controlled, and if that doesn't make a thrill run down Richie's spine, nothing else will.

Richie opens up beneath him with a groan, enthusiastically returning the kiss. Eddie is barely leaning on him, kneeling on either side of Richie's chest, which is not good at all. Okay, it's fine, but they could be doing so much better. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie's chest and rolls them until they're lying on their side, face-to-face, legs tangled up with one another.

This makes it so much easier for Richie to slide his hands down Eddie's back, past the waistband and into his briefs. He squeezes Eddie's ass in a way that makes Eddie arch into him.

"I thought you were taking those off," Eddie asks against his mouth in a way that really shouldn't be as hot as it is.

"Just want to make sure the job is done—" Richie spreads his hands and pulls Eddie's hips up against his own, "—right."

"Well, I'm not taking yours off until you get mine off, so it's up to you—" Eddie says, hooking one finger into the front of Richie's boxers and snapping it against his skin, "—how long that takes."

Richie scrunches up his nose, giving Eddie as dubious a look as he can at close range. "I thought you won. Why am I not getting naked first? Aren't _ you _ supposed to undress _ me _?"

"Do you really want to get into this discussion? Now?" Eddie nips at Richie's lower lip in a way that is way more distracting than it should be. "Or do you want to focus on something else? Like taking off my pants?"

He pulls back from Richie and gives him such an Eddie^TM look, Richie can't help but laugh.

Richie finally slides Eddie's underwear down and off, Eddie kicking it somewhere off the side of the bed. Then Eddie pulls Richie's boxers off—considerably easier, because they're nowhere near as tight—and throws it over the other side of the bed. At last, they are finally, _ finally _naked, all pressed up against each other in bed, legs tangled up. It doesn't take long after that. Richie has felt about half a wrong move from coming for the last ten minutes, and considering how hard Eddie is and the way he arches into Richie's hand when Richie wraps a hand around his cock, Eddie has been much the same.

Richie doesn't even remember what he says in those quiet few minutes, between kissing Eddie and being distracted from kissing Eddie because of the way Eddie jacks him off, slowly, teasingly at first, rubbing his thumb across the sensitive head in a way that makes Richie's breath hitch on a moan, his own hand stuttering on Eddie's arousal. It's easily one of the hottest minutes of his life, because Eddie will kiss his neck and murmur words of encouragement, and the occasional swear when Richie does something _ particularly _ good, in his ear.

It's all of it, Eddie's hands on him, the taste of Eddie's skin when Richie returns the kisses, then the quiet laughter as he tries to make a hickey on the side of Eddie's neck (not successful), how comfortable they are together, how much he never wants to leave this bed where he is with Eddie, as Eddie moans and presses his face into Richie's neck as he comes, Richie following just a few seconds later with the slightest touch of Eddie's hand. He loves the minutes after as they laze together in somewhat dazed silence, kissing lazily until Eddie finally breaks free and says they need to go clean up.

Eddie rolls out of bed and makes his way to their ensuite bathroom. Richie admires his ass again as he walks away. He feels stupidly in love with this man sometimes, in a way that makes his heart swell and it seems ridiculous, but he can't help it. 

Before he makes it to the door of the bathroom, Eddie turns and catches him looking.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "C'mon, get cleaned up."

"Just admiring the view," Richie replies, resting his chin in his hand and fluttering his eyelashes at Eddie.

Eddie's cheeks flush. "I'm not— you're going to get that shit on your face if you're not careful."

Richie looks at his hand which is, indeed, rather sticky and gross. He scoots himself off the bed and grabs some fresh underwear for both of them from the dresser before wandering into the bathroom after Eddie. 

Dropping the underwear next to the sink, Richie props his hip against the counter and grins at Eddie. "You assume that I don't _ want _ to get jizz on my face."

Eddie is already washing his hands in the sink and just gives him a look in the mirror as he mutters, "_ Jizz _."

Richie pushes off the counter and comes up behind Eddie. He puts his arms around his shoulders, careful to keep his messy hand from touching Eddie's skin. He's about to press their cheeks together— it really is convenient sometimes that Eddie is only five-foot nine— but Eddie jerks away. "Ah, hey watch it, Richie."

"These cheeks are clean, baby," Richie says, pressing a kiss to Eddie's ear, but he pulls away to let Eddie finish up. "That's an idea for next time, though."

"You're going to put it on that list, aren't you?" Eddie asks as he reaches up to dry off his hands.

He was the one that insisted Richie get nicer hand towels, and more towels in general, and which Richie has to say, has improved life considerably. Sometimes he feels very old, the way that he likes the furniture that he and Eddie have picked out together, or the way they got the kitchen redone last year (they asked Ben and Ben found someone, so they didn't do a lot, but it's way nicer than before) so they can actually both try to cook together, even if neither of them is very good at it.

Sometimes he feels like an old man, which makes him think about the funny idea of him and Eddie as _ real _ old men, in their high-waisted pants and ridiculous shirts (Eddie will probably still wear polos, and Richie, increasingly lurid Hawaiian shirts), squabbling over the TV remote or going for a walk around nearby Echo Park Lake where Richie will try to feed the millions of turtles that live there and Eddie will insist that they don't know what turtles eat so it's not a good idea, Rich— it all strikes Richie as the best type of future he could have. Before the Losers reunited, before Eddie kissed him in his hospital bed, he never thought that far into the future because he had never really thought—never really _ believed _— that he would have one. 

Now time spreads before them, thirty-five point-six years, or whatever Eddie said before, all that time to spend together. More than enough time to make up for the years they were apart. They don't even need the turtles.

"What, you mean my 'To-Do List'?" Richie asks with a grin. "Of all the things I want 'to do' with you?"

"You really going to put 'get my face jizzed on' on the list?" 

"No," Richie says as he switches places with Eddie at the sink. 

Eddie stops from where he's running a damp washcloth around his hips and down his thighs and looks at him. "Why not?"

"It's going to mention _ you _ specifically. '#86: Get _ Eddie _ to jizz on my face.' Gotta be specific. Oh, maybe I should add another, #87: Sex on the beach." 

Eddie laughs. "We are not having sex on a beach." 

"Why not? You don't want to see this body in a Speedo?"

"Are you going to have sex with a Speedo on?"

"Hmm. Good point. The Speedo will have to go."

"Okay, but it's still not private, for one—"

"It'll be a private beach. You know, those little bungalows out on the water that have their own beaches. We can rent the whole place out. In like, Tahiti, or Bali or something. You know," Richie continues, when Eddie looks dubious, "where everyone goes on their honeymoon?"

Just the word—_ honeymoon _—makes Richie's heart skip a beat. Eddie is watching him closely, a strange expression on his face. Before Richie can ask what he's thinking, Eddie steps forward and catches his face, pulling him down into a kiss. From the way Eddie was looking at him, Richie thinks it's going to be more passionate, more forceful. 

Instead, it's soft, and incredibly tender. It strikes Richie as the kind of kiss that people who love each other share. Warmth spreads over Richie, almost like he's embarrassed at the feelings. Even though they were literally just having sex less than five minutes ago, their hands all over each other, Richie delicately touches the hot slope of Eddie's neck, tracing the quick pulse down to his chest, where his heart beats under Richie's hand. 

Eddie pulls back, dropping onto his heels from where he was arched up on his toes to kiss Richie. He bites his lip, Richie tracking the movement with much interest, and takes a few breaths before he says, "Still not having sex on the beach." He pats Richie on the cheek. "Now get out, because I have to go to the bathroom." 

Richie gives Eddie one last, smacking kiss on his temple, grabs his underwear and closes the bathroom door behind him so Eddie can pee in peace. 

He throws himself onto the bed, allowing himself to sink down into the two mattress toppers and the familiar scent of both his and Eddie's and shampoos and their shared laundry softener. It's a comforting smell, like home. Richie never feels like he can relax out on the road until he comes back to this, to them.

He has wiggled his way up to the top of the bed and has grabbed his phone off the floor to check his emails when he hears Eddie come out of the bathroom. 

"D'you think Luke was serious about getting a gig in Miami for me?" Richie asks, trying to see if his manager has emailed him. "I was kind of joking but we could totally go visit Mike and see if he's adopted any crocodiles yet. I bet he has like four of them swimming around in his backyard pool."

The bed moves slightly as Eddie sits down next to him. "Sure, why not?" His hand slides up Richie's back in a way that's both comforting and distracting. Richie almost misses the face that Eddie wants to go to Florida, of all places.

"Wait. Really? You want to go meet all the little Mikey Juniors, who can run twenty miles an hour on land and do death rolls?"

"Maybe." Eddie squeezes the back of his neck and shakes it a little. "Anyway, I have something for you, Rich."

There's something a little weird in Eddie's voice that makes Richie look over his shoulder quickly. "What?" He scrunches up his nose to move his glasses up his face. 

Eddie opens his mouth but doesn't seem to be able to get any words out. He's sitting behind Richie, one leg crossed under him and the other splayed out behind. He doesn't look like he's holding anything. 

"Is it a present?" Richie asks, rolling over onto his side, resting his head on one hand. "I know our anniversary is in July. Wait— was it my birthday recently?" 

Richie frowns, trying to pick out the day. It has happened in the past that he's forgotten his own birthday, but he's been better at remembering lately. 

Eddie gives him a fond smile. "No, it's not your birthday. Put your hand out and close your eyes." 

"Hmm, I don't know how I feel about this," Richie says, even as he closes his eyes and puts a hand out. "Last time, you made me eat a raw potato."

"You said you'd be able to tell the difference between a raw potato and an apple, and I told you the human brain can't distinguish between the two without scent or sight. And who was right?" 

Richie sticks out his lower lip into a pout. "You. I knew I should have paid more attention in fourth grade science. Can I have a kiss, before you give me more raw vegetables?"

"You think people keep vegetables in their beds?" 

"Oh, I used to know a girl who kept a cucum—" Richie feels Eddie press a finger to his lips and shuts up. 

"Forget I asked," Eddie says with a laugh. His finger lifts from Richies lips to tilt his chin up. His thumb catches at Richie's lower lip in an unexpected way that makes tingles run through Richie's lips. 

Richie can feel Eddie lean in close, before their lips meet softly. Richie's free hand cups Eddie's face, trying to keep him there, but Eddie pulls away—too soon, in Richie's opinion. 

Eddie catches Richie's hand in his own and, just like Richie at the beginning of their contest this morning, kisses Richie's fingers, one, two, three, four, down his hand. The gesture has a different feel than before, more romantic or sensual this time, Richie's other senses heightened without his sight. 

Then Eddie puts something in his hand, folds his fingers around it. 

"Alright, Rich, you can look." 

"Is this one of those weird fruits made into squares?" Richie asks, even as he opens his eyes to see Eddie staring at him, dark eyes wide. "Like a peach—"

Richie looks down. In his hand, there's a small velvet box. “—oh.” 

He falls silent mostly because there’s about eighty-five million things running through his mind and none of them can _ quite _ beat out the other to make it past his lips. It’s a dark blue velvet box in his hand, very small, very light, and yet his hand is shaking a little bit as if it’s too heavy to hold. 

“This—this is for me?” Richie asks, because even though Eddie _ put it into his hand _ , he still can’t quite believe— they’ve talked about the future a lot, but still— “ _ Me?” _

The color is high on Eddie’s face. “Yes, it’s for you.”

“You want me to open it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re giving this to me?” 

“Yes! Do you not want to open it, or something?” Eddie’s hands are clenching each other so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Richie can tell he’s about one second away from trying to wrangle it away from him. “I can take it back—” 

He reaches out for the box and Richie holds it protectively against his chest.

“No, no, no! You can’t— I just— me? You chose— you’re giving it to me?” Richie’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, it’s going so fast. He can feel emotion rise up his throat and tears prick his eyes and he hasn’t even opened the box. Eddie wants to— “Me?”

“Why do you sound like you can’t believe you just won an Oscar?” Eddie’s voice is beginning to ratchet up a little with stress. 

“Oh, this is way better than winning an Oscar,” Richie says, rolling onto his back so he can hold the box to his chest with both hands. He puts on a bad Southern accent, “Honey, those Oscars or what-have-you are dime-a-dozen, but this— this! Why, my stars, I thought you’d never ask—”

“You haven’t even opened it yet!” Eddie says, voice very high.

The thought smacks Richie in the face like a wet towel, and stops him in his tracks. He inhales sharply. _ Oh, shit, what if it’s not— a lot of things come in velvet boxes— _

Eddie catches his expression and puts his hand over Richie’s interlaced hands. He leans in and says softly, “I can’t ask you until you open it, Richie.”

Richie looks at him, and it’s a little embarrassing because his eyes are already a bit misty. A tear slides down his cheek from the emotion that’s clogging his throat. “Ask what?” he croaks. 

“Can you open it, please?” 

Eddie is looking at him and his expression is very soft and very nervous, which is exactly how Richie feels, too. He opens the box and inside is a simple gold ring, cushioned in white satin.

He blinks very rapidly, but the image still blurs a bit from the tears beginning to slide down his cheeks.

"Is this— is this— your way of telling me you want to get a nipple piercing?" Richie jokes because he feels like tears are already making their way down his face and he's just a _ little _ bit emotional.

Eddie smiles at him, though it's clear he's having trouble keeping a calm face on, too. His cheeks are flushed very high and his chest, too, is beginning to turn pink. "D-do you want to get married, Richie?"

"To you, right?" Richie asks.

"No, to my great aunt Marilyn, I'm here on her behalf— yes, to me, Rich. Do you— will you marry me?" Eddie asks, looking very determinedly at him, his brows pushed together.

It's not at all like Richie has dreamed of, because Richie has never really dreamed of it, not like this. He's dreamed of them already married, eighty years old and crabby old fuckers who cause havoc at the senior living facility, or spending their twentieth anniversary doing something extremely cliche like going on a riverboat cruise through Germany, or the promise slash joke that Richie would be there to judge Eddie's last words in thirty years—it's all the pieces of a marriage, with their house becoming more and more _ theirs _ every day, waking up together and going grocery shopping and, just, well, everything else.

So, he's going to have to be one of those people, who talk about how perfect their partner's proposal was, because it is. His heart feels full and he looks like an idiot and he's so fucking happy, it's ridiculous.

"Fuck yes, I'll marry you!" Richie cries through the tears. "Will you, uh, will you marry me?"

Eddie laughs, the worry that had creased his brow now released. "I think we both have to be in on it, to get married. But yeah, I'll marry you."

Richie isn't sure if Eddie should put the ring on him— and where's Eddie's ring? He better not have gotten himself a ring because Richie is going to get him the gaudiest fucking thing, or whatever Eddie picks out— but the ring seems less important to him than just getting his hands on Eddie. Now.

Richie reaches up to cup Eddie's face before he pulls Eddie down for the approximation of a kiss, shaking lips and weird angle and tears and all that shit. They're going to be _ married _. The rest of the Losers are going to flip their shit over it. Richie can’t wait.

Eddie smiles against his lips and Richie wraps an arm around his waist to roll him over, until Eddie is sprawled half across him. It should be uncomfortable but Eddie is kissing him, and the tension that was so obvious in his shoulders has now relaxed completely under Richie's touch.

Richie pulls away just far enough to whisper against Eddie's lips, "Oh, I can put this on my 'To-Do List'."

Eddie raises an eyebrow. "You're putting me on your 'To-Do List'?"

"I'm putting 'Get married to the love of my life, Eddie Kaspbrak' on my 'To-Do List'," Richie says, enjoying the way Eddie's cheeks turn pink and a smile spreads across his face. "Eddie, my love, you have always been at the top of the list."

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> JESSICA thank you for encouraging me and helping me through the crisis that is trying to write explicit fic!!! <33333 100% convinced the last 15 minutes of it ch 2 never happened, right? 
> 
> me? writing explicit fic??!?! more common than you think, apparently
> 
> if you want to see me reblog 75 reddie posts in a row pls join me on tumblr @faeheyjesper


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